From the Back of a Broken Dream
by The Valkyrie and the Druid
Summary: What if Isabella's life charted a different course? From befriending Hareton to leaving Heathcliff for good, what if Fate made her take different road, an unseen path nobody could ever imagine and deem possible? /Eventual Heathcliff x Isabella\
1. So Cold

**From the Back of A Broken Dream **

**Summary: **What if Isabella's life charted a different course? From befriending Hareton to leaving Heathcliff for good, what if Fate made her take different road, an unseen path nobody could ever imagine and deem possible? [Eventual Heathcliff x Isabella]

Hey there, folks! This is the Druid half of TVATD (The Valkyrie and the Druid) speaking. If you clicked on this, then we didn't scare you away with that radically non-canonical pairing. Yippee for us!

You're probably a little skeptical about that, but don't worry, we can pull it off, and maybe we'll even change your mind about alternate pairings. Hopefully you'll even enjoy the story a little. And so, without further ado, we present the first chapter of _From the Back of a Broken Dream._

DISCLAIMER: We do not own Wuthering Heights! We just like to mess with it.

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Chapter One: So Cold

* * *

"_One day she will tell you that she has had enough."_

-The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, "Face Down"

* * *

It was the cold that did it.

Not the cold outside, no, though the wind and rain had whipped themselves into a gale fit to chill the pits of Hell. That was nothing to her, just a part of everyday life, a physical mirror to the emotional torment that reigned at the Heights.

It was the cold in his eyes, the pitch-black bottomless pits that stared unflinching at her as the back of his hand cracked mercilessly against her cheekbone. Her face burned from the force of the blow, but the power of his gaze sent a knife of ice into her heart.

He didn't care. He never cared. She was nothing more than a tool to him. A specimen. A thing.

Isabella's cornflower-blue eyes burned with tears. She had wandered right into his trap, a willing victim, foolish and naïve. She had pined for him as she had never done for anything or anyone in her life—but he couldn't even repay her with something as passionate as hatred. Even until now, she'd held on for that much, some sign that he felt _something_, anything for her.

But she looked back into those obsidian eyes and saw only a frigid abyss.

He turned his back on her as though she were a dog, leaving her kneeling on the floor, cradling her cheek. She was so sick of this. Sick and tired of subjecting herself to this demeaning cycle of victimization and self-pity. She wanted it to _stop. _

Slowly, the murky chill of woe gave way to a burning sensation, one that spread out from her chest to the very tips of her fingers. It scorched away at her depression, searing all the thoughts of her martyred existence until her head throbbed with it. Isabella staggered to her feet, suddenly energized by the blazing presence that had consumed her.

Heathcliff had not yet left the room, and she found herself glaring sharply at his back, letting her righteous fury engulf her. Who was he to treat her like this? More importantly: who was she to tolerate it?

_No more. _

"I'm leaving."

The sound of her own voice almost startled her as much as it did Heathcliff; the dark man whirled around, clearly not expecting such a strong tone from the Linton heiress. When he registered her words, he grew a world-class sneer, looking down his nose at her and her petty defiance. "If you think you can muster the spine, please do. I'll be glad to be rid of your pathetic shade."

"You don't understand," she continued, voice low yet perfectly intelligible, cauterized into clarity by her anger. "I. Am. Leaving." She raised her chin high, meeting Heathcliff's eyes in a way she had never dared before. For a moment she fancied that she saw some spark of intrigue, some brief indication that she had finally done something to merit his attention—but it was gone as soon as it came, and it was too late for him in any case. She was through.

Without saying another word, Isabella quitted the room, leaving her former master behind.

* * *

It wasn't until she was in the middle of packing her trunk that she realized how badly her hands were shaking. Her rage had carried her up the stairs and into her room, but the flare of emotion was beginning to wear off, leaving residual dread. She had to move quickly, before he decided that he wanted to keep her at the Heights to continue studying her torment. She shuddered to think what that beast might resort to in order to restrain her from leaving—

_It doesn't matter_, a part of her said. _No matter what he does. You will not be held to this place any longer._

Her pale hands had stilled. She took in a deep breath—one that already seemed to taste and feel of freedom—and shoved more items in her trunk, recharged by that small, precious part of her. Her mind opened into sharp clarity once more as she took inventory of everything she would need on her journey to a destination yet unknown. Clothing, of course, and a few luxuries such as her hairbrush and mirror.

Isabella's eyes wandered to the small table next to her bed, where a crudely carved wooden figure rested. It was supposed to be a dog, though it had no tail and its head could be easily mistaken for a fifth leg. Still, it was invested with all the fumbling care that a child put into his projects. The blonde smiled wryly as she thought of the creator of that little wooden canine and how wary he'd been of her when she first came to Wuthering Heights…

"**You stay away from me!" Hareton's little-boy voice squawked. "Master Heathcliff says I mun have nothing to do wit ye!" **

**Isabella pursed her lips, repressing the urge to just leave the dirty little scamp alone as he commanded. It would serve him right, treating her so foully when she was simply trying to be cordial to him. **

**Hareton glared up at her, dark brown eyes filled with the spontaneous dislike that children produced so easily: yet there was also a hunted quality, a more calculated wariness that no child should have so young. Already Hareton had learned to watch out for his own skin lest he incur the wrath of the Master. He regarded Isabella as though she were a poisonous snake, as though if he let himself be ensnared by her he would soon suffer the consequences of his disobedience. **

**He reached down to the ground and picked up an errant stone from the path, holding it in his little fist and threatening to throw it at Isabella. As his sleeve fell down his arm, Isabella was reminded of why she was being nice to him when she saw how thin his wrists were. His skin seemed to stretch tight across his muscle and bone, showing the lines of his anatomy in almost painful relief. It only confirmed her suspicions that Heathcliff hadn't been letting the boy eat. **

**Softening her expression, Isabella extended the chunk of bread she held towards the little boy. "Here," she said gently. "Mr. Heathcliff's gone out for a walk along the moors, he won't be back until sundown. I'll keep Joseph distracted so you can take this and have it in the stables. It won't be so bad eating there since you're already quite dirty." Isabella bit her lip on her last sentence, instantly regretting letting it slip out. She knew Hareton had inherited the Earnshaws' fierce pride; the last thing she wanted was for it to get in the way of her plan. Of course she didn't bear any particular affection for the boy, but seeing him grow so wasted when he should be hale and strong made her heart constrict. **

**Hareton's eyebrows furrowed expressively, and for a moment Isabella was certain he would refuse her. But then his eyes lit upon the bread and learned pride was overtaken by instinctual hunger. Quick as a squirrel, he dropped the rock and snatched the bread from her hand, holding it close to his chest so much like the aforementioned rodent that Isabella had to smile slightly. He still looked at her like a hunted animal—but there was a small flicker of gratitude in his eyes as he scurried off to the stables. **

**Isabella scrubbed vigorously at an appallingly filthy skirt, dunking it into the icy water before going at it again with a lump of lye. The delicate skin of her palms felt chafed and raw, and her forearms seemed to have raised permanent goosebumps. She had held out as long as she could without resorting to this servant's task, but at long last her clothes had become so dirty she couldn't stand the sight of them and had taken matters into her own hands. She'd seen Zillah perform the task of laundry enough times that she felt she could mimic it; she had not foreseen how difficult it would be for her as an aristocrat who'd never done a hard day's work in her life.**

**The blonde wiped sweat from her brow, feeling disgusted. How did the servants **_**do**_** this? It was a horrible business.**

"**Lady," said a small voice from behind her. **

**She turned to see none other than Hareton—who was looking considerably less emaciated these days, thanks to her sneaking him food. The little boy was holding a bundle of a few articles of clothing, probably all the ones that he owned. He looked up at her sheepishly, though he seemed almost frustrated with himself that he'd come to converse with her. "What is it, Hareton?" she asked, trying to keep her irritation with the laundry from showing. Hareton was her one slim chance for an ally in this desolate place, and from the brief time they'd spent together she'd grown almost fond of the boy. He seemed to have a potential in him that was going to waste at the Heights; she wanted to be the one to help bring it out.**

"**Could you—" Hareton screwed up his little face, an expression that looked nothing but adorable. Words failing to describe his situation, he shoved his dirty laundry at Isabella and looked up at her pleadingly. **

**She glanced from the rags in the washbasin to the ones in Hareton's arms and sighed. Well, what was a few more, really? They were such small articles that they wouldn't make much of a difference. She was even starting to get the hang of this whole "washing" thing… somewhat.**

**Carefully, she extracted the laundry from the young boy's arms and placed it into the washbasin. Isabella expected to hear his footsteps pattering away, but to her surprise, Hareton stayed by the basin—on the opposite side from her, but still in her proximity. He gave her a warning glare as though he was daring her to steal his clothing, and then he sat right down on the floor to show that he wasn't going anywhere and would allow her to do no such thing. **

**Isabella felt a giggle rise in her throat at his behavior. He certainly had intensity, but his behavior could be seen as any young boy's. The importance he placed on trivial things was simply… cute. **

**As she set back to scouring the laundry with renewed spirit, she realized that this was the first time she'd come close to laughing since coming to Wuthering Heights.**

"**Yes, good, Hareton. Now what is this one?"**

**Isabella pointed a slender finger at a letter she'd written on a piece of paper that she kept guarded jealously from Heathcliff and his servants. The boy's dark brows shifted in their expressive manner again as he strained to recall his previous lessons—indeed, to even recognize the letter in the flicker of candlelight.**

"**That is… 'i'."**

"**Right again," Isabella said, unable to keep a small note of pride from her voice. She'd been correct in assuming that Hareton was smarter than everyone thought; he'd been advancing rapidly in his lessons, evidence of a keen mind yet unpolished, a diamond in the rough. "Now, can you find the letter 'v' for me?"**

**Of course, their lessons were hardly formal or consistent. They had to be conducted in utmost secrecy during the night, in hushed voices so that no one could discover their activities. She knew with awful certainty that if Heathcliff discovered she was teaching Hareton to read, he would see to it that they could never spend time alone together at all—and would likely beat either one of them senseless to ensure it. **

**Needless to say, she was very, very careful not to give herself away through shows of hopeful spirit. Most of the time she didn't have to act; she was perfectly miserable when Heathcliff or Joseph was around, and neither of them truly gave a fig to ask how she was otherwise. Hareton was a small bright spot in the dinginess of the Heights, and she would not let them take that away—for her sake, and for Hareton's.**

**As he pointed with his small, still-growing finger at the letter 'v', Hareton let loose a wide yawn, remembering to cover his face halfway through. "I'm tired, Miss Isabella," he said quietly. "May I go to sleep?" **

"**Of course. You've done very well for tonight."**

**Hareton crawled atop the cot that served as his bed and curled up underneath a tattered blanket; Isabella was about to exit the room when his little-boy voice called her back. **

"**Miss Isabella," he asked, voice fuzzy with the prequel to sleep, "will you read to me? Just until I fall asleep."**

**Isabella paused, unsure if staying in his room much longer would alert one of their antagonists. Surely, though, if she kept her voice down, and was stealthy going back to her own chambers, she could go unnoticed. **

**She settled back into the chair next to Hareton's bed and opened an old book, one that she had kept close to her ever since she discovered it at the Heights. Her voice seemed to pour out of her, gently washing over Hareton as his eyelids flickered, lulling him into sleep. **

"_**When April with his showers sweet with fruit**_

_**The drought of March has pierced unto the root**_

_**And bathed each vein with liquor that has power**_

_**To generate therein and sire the flower**_**…" **

Isabella stroked her fingers along the little dog, recalling all of the time and effort she had invested with Hareton. She couldn't leave him to fall under Heathcliff's influence again, not when he'd come so far. Not when they'd grown so close.

She placed the little dog in her trunk and snapped it shut, lugging it out of her room with both hands. She lurched down the hall, forgoing grace in favor of speed. The extra time she had spent in her room could possibly work to her advantage; Heathcliff would assume she had simply run upstairs to sob and wail, and would have gone off to gamble or drink or whatever the hell he did when he wasn't in the house. Still, he could be lurking in some corridor of the manor. It wouldn't hurt to move quickly.

After what seemed like five years, she discovered Hareton sitting on his cot, studying the sheets of letters she had left, his lips moving in silent practice. "Hareton," she breathed, feeling her lungs laboring from her exercise. He glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes lighting with curiosity at her state.

"I'm going to leave, Hareton," she said more firmly, keeping her gaze locked on his young face. So very young, with still so much to learn. "Will you come with me?"

Hareton considered the weight of her words, sensing that they were more than an insincere claim; his eyes seemed to deepen as he gazed around the room that he had spent most of his life in. She could see him remembering everything he had gone through at the Heights, all the hardship and cruelty… and, occasionally, the moments of hope. When he looked back at her, she saw in his countenance a shadow of the person he would grow up to be: a strong, intelligent man, one too good to remain trapped here.

"Yes. Let's go, Miss Isabella."

* * *

Once outside, the wind and rain beat them harshly, whipping Isabella's hair about her face and tangling her cloak. It was as though some malicious druid had called up the elements to drive them back to their place of torment. Still they pressed on; Isabella kept Hareton's hand clutched tight in hers, driving through the storm with all the willpower that she had saved up over the years.

When at last they saw the lights of Thrushcross Grange, the sight of her childhood home helped to spur her forward, her aching muscles feeling as though they could simply snap with every step. "We're almost there," she said, her breathing heavy. Hareton made no verbal response, but he gave her hand a hearty squeeze and she heard his pace accelerate to match hers.

She imagined that the two of them made quite a picture when she saw Nelly's expression upon opening the door; she ushered the dripping wet Hareton inside first, then followed quickly, not missing her own small puddle that she created.

"Forgive me, Ellen," she said, her manners returning as she took in the ambience of her former home. "I need only stay to call a carriage. Hareton and I, we've just run from the Heights—" Her voice faltered as her left leg quaked, and Isabella staggered. The weight of the trunk suddenly felt enormous, unbearable, as though it could pull her arm from its socket. She felt Nelly's strong, stout arms support her, and she saw the nursemaid's face take on an expression of compassion.

"You two set down in the sitting room," she said, biting her lip in worry. "Mr. Linton's asleep upstairs. I'll call a carriage for you and get you both something hot to drink. And some dry clothes as well."

Isabella murmured a "thank you" and drifted into the sitting room with her young charge. They fell upon the couch together, sinking into its plush cushions. Her vision seemed to narrow into a dim tunnel, blurred and dark at the edges; later she could vaguely recall Ellen helping her into a dry dress and gulping down amber tea, but in truth her consciousness didn't return to full clarity until she and Hareton were seated in the carriage, jaunting along the road briskly.

"You mun sleep, Miss Isabella," Hareton said to her from her side. "I'll keep a watch, I will."

Although a corner of her mind protested that she must remain lucid, that she had to stay awake for both their sakes, her body felt that she could trust in Hareton's abilities, and surely it wouldn't do harm to catch just a little bit of sleep…

Just… a little… sweet darkness…

* * *

The attack was sudden.

Isabella was wrenched from her unconscious state by the loud report of a rifle and Hareton shaking her fiercely. Her head cleared rapidly and she scrambled upright, hearing men shouting from somewhere outside the carriage. There was another crack of gunfire and her ears rang with the closeness of it. She remained in the carriage, paralyzed by terror, clutching Hareton to her desperately. It couldn't be, he _couldn't _have found them so soon—!

The barrel of a gun wedged into the window of the carriage, and through it she glimpsed the unwashed face of a truly ugly man, with a squashed nose and eyes that were uneven sizes. "Now then, missus," he said gruffly. "Hand over that trunk of yours and we'll spare you and the boy. If not…" He waved the gun in the direction of the front of the carriage, where the driver sat. "You'll end up like that bloke out there."

Isabella felt herself begin to shake. Though she couldn't see him, she felt that the driver was dead for certain, fear coloring her judgment. She glanced frantically to the other window, but there was another man parked there as well, with a second gun trained upon them. There was no way out, no chance of survival unless they did as the ugly man asked.

Moving slowly, conscious of her trembling limbs and the tears that had begun to wet her cheeks, Isabella reached down and shunted the trunk closer to the ugly man's side of the carriage. When it reached the door, she drew back to her seat quickly, not wanting to get any closer to him than absolutely necessary. Next to her, Hareton was completely still, though she saw a certain steadiness in the set of his jaw. He was frightened, but he had learned not to show it. She wished desperately that she had the little boy's strength.

The ugly man opened the door of the carriage and closed his hand around the handle of the trunk, jerking it from the carriage floor. Isabella remained curled on the seat, quivering like a baby rabbit under a hawk's gaze. It was almost over. _Please_ _let it be almost over_, she prayed.

The men began to turn away from them and Isabella felt a trickle of relief begin to wash away the horrendous fear—but then an aged, powerful voice echoed from outside.

"What's this, now? Robbing innocent women and children?"

_Oh dear Heavenly Father, please…_ It didn't matter that the voice sounded as though it was coming to their aid; the men had paused and it appeared that their confrontation would be prolonged. Isabella would be fine with them purloining her belongings as long as they left as soon as possible, taking their harsh iron guns with them. Yet the voice continued on, oblivious to her wishes.

"I don't believe I shall stand for this. No, not at all." The voice grew nearer and she discerned that it belonged to an older woman, a voice like old soft leather, wrinkled yet tough. Wonderful. Their savior was to be an old lady.

"Hey, what're you—" _THUNK._

Isabella blinked in shock as the business end of a hefty wooden staff smacked the ugly man cleanly between his eyes; he dropped like a stone and a new figure took his place, peering into the carriage. It was indeed an old woman, wearing a shawl of deepest purple with countless bangles and earrings dangling from her person. From what Isabella could see of her hair, it was thick and lustrous despite being almost entirely gray, and her kindly, wrinkled face had a distinctly dusky shade. She smiled briefly at her and Hareton, ebony eyes twinkling, before she pinned the man on the other side of the carriage with a practiced glare. "Now then, sonny, make your move."

The other man gave the old woman a once-over, then glanced at where his partner had fallen and not moved an inch. Seemingly choosing his own skin over that of his comrade's, he muttered and oath and bolted away from the carriage, heading into the hills.

The old woman clucked her tongue as if in disapproval of his behavior and nudged the fallen man with her toe. "They just don't make bandits like they used to. You are unharmed, I hope?"

Isabella nodded quickly, still not quite comprehending what had just happened. Somehow this ancient gypsy woman—and she was undoubtedly a gypsy—had bested two grown men with guns using nothing but a staff and force of personality. "T-Thank you," she finally stammered, terror leaching from her system and being replaced with a kind of wonder.

The woman smiled and nodded in response, then glanced over the two of them: their state of fatigue and disarray, the confused and lost look on their faces. "My name is Anasztasia. You two look like you could use my help."


	2. The Beginning of Something New

**From the Back of A Broken Dream **

**Summary: **What if Isabella's life charted a different course? From befriending Hareton to leaving Heathcliff for good, what if Fate made her take different road, an unseen path nobody could ever imagine and deem possible? [Eventual Heathcliff x Isabella]

That's right! We're back with another chapter, folks! Hello kiddies, this is the Valkyrie! I am here to claim your immortal souls while feasting on your Christmas dinner! ...Okay, okay, I'm only jesting--sort of. I won't come for you soul...yet.

Shoving my eccentric behavior aside, I finally got around to finishing the next chapter just in time for Christmas! Consider this a gift from the Druid and I! Enjoy!

DISCLAIMER: We are not Emily Bronte therefore Wuthering Heights does not belong to us. Except for all the OCs, they're all OURS! OURS, I tell you! ...I better stop now.

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Chapter Two: The Beginning of Something New

"_One day I'm gonna forget your name,  
And one sweet day, you're gonna drown in my lost pain."_

-Evanescence, "Sweet Sacrifice"

* * *

Shock flooded through Isabella's senses and at first, she didn't say anything. All she could do was clutch Hareton's small hand tightly as if she was afraid of him being snatched away from her grasp in any second. And yet, the gypsy who called herself Anasztasia continued to smile genially at him, her wrinkled visage softening at the two dumbstruck, exhausted duo standing right before her.

"And what's your name, gel?" Anasztasia asked cordially, lowering her quarterstaff down to show them she meant them no harm. Isabella swallowed the growing lump in her throat and finally mustered enough courage to speak.

"I-Isabella, Miss A-Anasztasia," she answered softly, unconsciously tightening her grip on Hareton's tiny hand. "And t-this is Hareton."

"This dangerous road for a young woman and boy to travel," Anasztasia remarked placidly, noting there wasn't another man besides the coach driver to be seen, "Usually proper young ladies are with an escort or a man of some sort. A pretty thing like yourself would have a husband to protect and watch over you."

As soon as those words left the ancient woman's mouth, Isabella's countenance darkened and her eyes flashed with undiluted contempt for Heathcliff, the man she thought would be her dark, brooding prince but turned out to be an ogre, a hideous monster in form of human skin. If Heathcliff had been here, he would laughed at their misfortune prior to he commenced in clubbing her and Hareton to death.

"I have no need for my husband," Isabella told her icily, all forms of anxiety and shock evaporating from herself now, "Hareton and I will manage fine on our own."

Briefly, Anasztasia was taken aback by Isabella's tone; she certainly hadn't been expecting such harsh, powerful words from an angelic-looking female with pretty celeste eyes and glossy, silky flaxen hair. Yet, as Anasztasia gazed deep into the troubled Isabella's eyes, the fierce gypsy fighter could see the same pain, agony, and despisal she once harbored in her heart many years ago, before she met Jörg and her life began anew. At that precise, fleeting minute, Anasztasia comprehended everything about Isabella and grasped at what sort of life befell her.

"Aye, Mizz Isabella, you might, but those no-good bandits might come back and there's no telling what other dangers lurk near the roads. Perhaps you and your little boy should come with me."

Isabella was baffled by the woman's offer–should she really accept aid from a gypsy? After all, her father told them they were nothing but beggars, thieves, malefactors, and heathens. They simply couldn't be trusted, he had told her and Edgar that when they were very young. But this gypsy, this lady, came to their rescue and asked for nothing in return. If she was truly devious as Papa had said she was, the old woman would have robbed them blind by now and left her and Hareton at the mercy of the frigid, ruthless weather and blackguards that prowl about in the night.

Glancing down, she caught gazes with Hareton. Just one, simply stare into his blunt yet honest eyes was all Isabella needed to know what to do. She had Hareton to care for and being in the hands of a gypsy was far less risky and more sage than walking on foot in the shadows of the forest. Besides, her father could have been wrong about the gypsies.

"All right, Anasztasia," Isabella began with a weary sigh (for this trip had taken its toll on her), "we shall accompany you. And I thank you for you generous proffer."

* * *

"Come! Again!"

The brisk, commanding tone of Anasztasia echoed against the crisp, morning air, wafting through the colorless sky that hung over the erect form of the gypsy woman and the panting, bent, but resolute Isabella. Nodding her head weakly, Isabella straighten herself back up and eyed Anasztasia (now her mentor) acutely before rushing in for an attack. She feigned up high and went down low, striking Anasztasia's knees. The archaic woman gasped for second, crumpling to the ground due to the surprise assailment. Seizing her chance, Isabella dove in for Anasztasia's head but the ancient gypsy blocked the genteel female's fist with an open palm, rotating her hand around so she could wrap her fingers around Isabella's wrist. Once she held Isabella prisoner in her grasp, she launched out one leg and swiftly swiped the limb against Isabella's shin. The force caused Isabella to collapse as well and now both women were down on the ground. However, Anasztasia recovered first and quickly captured Isabella into a head lock, completely pining Isabella face first into the grass. Isabella grunted, frustrated with her lack of success–again.

Suddenly, the pressure around her head and neck was gone and Isabella could feel Anasztasia remove herself from her body. Turning around, Isabella swallowed the lump in her throat, the failure crushing down upon her akin to a pall of doom draped all around her, suffocating every ouch of opportunity she had.

"Don't look so glum, Isabella. You're getting better with every strike." This compliment shattered the said female's negative musings and she jerked her head up to face her mentor.

"You think so? Even after all my unsuccessful attempts, Madame Anasztasia?" she inquired, getting up while dusting some grass and dirt off her blouse. During her training with Madame Anasztasia, she would change into a loose-fitting blouse and trousers. If her brother Edgar ever saw her now he would surely die of apoplexy.

Anasztasia nodded sagely at Isabella's question. "I've been doing this for years–it's going to take you quite some time for you to figure out how to outfox me, my dear. However, you're progressing nicely, Isabella. I am proud how much you have accomplished." Her wrinkled, leathery face softened as she spoke, regarding Isabella as if she was her own daughter. "Now, take a break, my child. I'm sure Hareton has fallen asleep again."

A grin broke across Isabella's features. "No doubt about that. I was going to check on him after we had finished for today."

As she raced back the caravan where Hareton was busy napping, Anasztasia watched Isabella go, the soft smile still wreathed on her aging features. Already it had been several weeks and already Isabella was showing some promise. She had changed a lot from being the wary, naïve yet battered female who was simply running away from her abusive husband and trying to find a better life somewhere else.

That memory had always been fresh in Anasztasia's mind.

**The old, vibrantly painted caravan tumbled along the bumpy dirt road, jostling its occupants within. Anasztasia was use to all the quirks of her mobile home but her two guests weren't. However, they complained very little which impressed the wandering gypsy greatly. Usually, wealthy, illustrious folk like the Isabella woman would gripe about every discomfort or injury they felt, no matter how small. Yet Isabella was as quiet as a church mouse and her boy, Hareton, was fast asleep, leaning against Isabella, one hand tightly clutching her skirt. **

"**Mizz Isabella." The said female snapped her head up, clear azure eyes locking directly with Anasztasia's dark, fathomable gaze. Ere she could even speak or ask the noble female a question, Anasztasia noticed a rather startling aspect of the striking blonde and it sent a chill down her weary bones. Those beautiful blue eyes of hers should have been rife with light and joy. Instead, they were shadowed, haunted and plagued by past grievances and terror. The more Anasztasia stared intently into those victimized eyes, the more Anasztasia was coming to realize that this finely dressed yet peculiar lady was running from something–or someone.**

"**Child, what is troubling you?" **

"**I beg your pardon?" Isabella remarked coolly, startled by Anasztasia's odd question. **

"**Mizz Isabella, I can see the pain in your eyes. You're terrified of something, the same way a doe is afraid of a wolf. Are you running away from someone? Is someone trying to hurt you?" interrogated Anasztasia lightly, not attempting to alarm her guest in any way. She fathomed she was prying into affairs that didn't concern her and yet, Anasztasia knew for certain that talking to someone about their issues was the first step to recovery. "Please, Isabella…let me help you." **

**Out of pure instinct, she reached out and gently touched the young female's hand, almost expecting her to snatch it away and glare at her contemptuously. But Isabella didn't. She simply stared at Anasztasia's genial gesture, her other hand curling up against her leg. She inhaled sharply, then exhaled, as if she was internally debating whether or not she should answer Anasztasia's query. Just when the old gypsy thought she had lost her, Isabella spoke.**

"**Hareton and I are trying to escape from my husband, Heathcliff."**

After that baffling admission, Anasztasia gradually learned about Isabella's dismal life with her husband after they had eloped and married. She had been consistently walloped and clouted every day, with no remorse. The man, Heathcliff, either smacked her around on a whim or when she had the audacity to fight back. It was after when Isabella had finished her tale that Anasztasia suggested for her to learn some defense tactics, just in case her odious husband decided to track her down and drag her and Hareton back to Wuthering Heights. The petite female suddenly became curious with her offer and inquired for more information about this supposed techniques.

It was almost strange to have a proper young lady to be intrigued with such a topic that society would have right off the bat demanded her to be discourage from. But Anasztasia was never a conventional woman so she heeded Isabella's penchant and answered all her questions. Thus, she began training Isabella in the many of the arts of hand-to-hand combat.

_And over the weeks she has proven to be an attentive, promising pupil. It's such a shame I couldn't have met her sooner._

With this musing still swirling in her mind, Anasztasia followed Isabella and while the young blonde was busy putting Hareton to bed, the aging gypsy fighter commenced with the preparations of their evening meal.

* * *

At first, Heathcliff didn't mind the absence of Isabella, the experience was rather refreshing. He wasn't subjected to hear her blasted voice or behold that simpering face of hers. He was free from those irksome azuline eyes, her fair, pale, and dainty visage, and that golden halo of soft curls. The master of Wuthering Heights reckoned the mere memory of Isabella would just fade away into the shadows of his manor. After all, there was barely a trace of anything left that would remind him of her. Just when he was about to celebrate, the realization that her departure was more a curse than a blessing soon struck home.

This revelation betided right after he discovered his wife took Hareton with her.

"WHAT?!" bellowed the enraged lord, stalking back and forth after his paucity of staff informed him that Hareton was missing and probably followed Isabella, "How is this possible?" He nearly gnashed his teeth at them, his dark, beastly temper was mounting and he had no one to unleash his ire upon. That's what he used both Hareton and Isabella for and now, they had vanished.

"I-I'm not sure, M-Master Heathcliff," stammered his cook, Zillah, "But I t-think Mistress Isabella and the boy f-formed a solid bond w-with each other when s-she first c-came to W-Wuthering Heights."

Heathcliff raked one hand through his messy, ebony hair, evidently displeased with this new piece of information. Yet, if Zillah was correct, that would explain why both Hareton and Isabella were missing. The thought still left a burning, seething sensation through Heathcliff and he stormed away from his staff, barking over his shoulder for them to return to their duties. They scurried off like rabbits, their fear of him thick and precedent as the nebulous, murky fog outside.

Slamming the front door shut, the young lord furiously strolled over to the stables and saddled up his only horse, a muscular, haughty stallion with eyes black as coals and whose coat gleamed like a starless night sky. Mounting his horse, Heathcliff kicked its sides and the stallion charged forward, galloping down the muddy, torturous pathway that eventually led to Thrushcross Grange.

He had many questions and knew Nelly would have answers for him.

* * *

Sooo...you like? Hopefully, the long wait was worth it, we'll try to be more prompt with our updates but we can't make any promises. We have other stories that occupy our time as well, not to mention school and homework...the list goes on. Yet, this fanfic won't be forsaken, you can't count on that! I simply wouldn't stand for that.

So anyway, review, favorite, alert, etc and flamers will be sent to Heathcliff, who is in a dire need of a new punching bag. And Merry Christmas and have a Happy New Year!


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